


a practice in deocrum

by afraidtofall



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Anal Fingering, Body Worship, Cannibalism Play, Drabble Collection, Introspection, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP without Porn, Puppy Play, Self-Destruction, other characters not mentioned due to lack of relevance to the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afraidtofall/pseuds/afraidtofall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is pain in pleasure. It's what they live for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i ate it and i returned

**Author's Note:**

> a reupload of previous work.

He is nothing but jagged edges and indents, smeared graphite in a margin, once a face artistically designed and now nothing but downward curves and palpable misery with a taste of something ruby and sickeningly sweet. What he needs, he gets in the form of purple and blue pressed into ivory skin, puffed up and swollen, always swollen. Colored, he is a blend of a storm of too pale and translucent with a too pink mouth and too dark eyes, never not calculating but open during situations like this, forgiving. With a press here, and with a press there, he’s a canary alerting the world to the dangers that threaten to end them, pinched off at the very end like it all threatens to come out too fast and too sudden, tiny fingers clenching and clinging, drawing willingly that monster closer to the intoxicating curve of that most secret part of him.

Kaneki is giving, and then he’s not. Those same hands that once drew Tsukiyama close are the same hands that are rejecting him with a brittle push against his shoulders, the smooth silk of his too red button up shirt, and when he’s satisfied with the distance, he’s cruelty personified. Dark lashes that flutter like half-moons against the heat of his cheeks and a mouth that is slick with spit so heartbreaking that the world could be ending and Tsukiyama could not, would not, care, Kaneki is Picasso’s artwork shredded and reapplied. An unfair siren who might just be the inevitable odd this man is wholly unwilling to resist, as if resistance is an option when there is supple skin to be suckled, bitten and broken.

“Please?” A word, gargled, tiny shards of stained glass in the back of his throat, trembling gaze unfocused and broken and desperate for some sort of release. Necessarily, a touch or a taste. Unrealistically, to continue until there was nothing less, nothing more than thousands of pieces of absence layered neatly and tucked into the pure blasphemy of a trembling gaze. They are hardly anything but a pretzel, somewhat curled in such a tight space. A dressing room, a place where clothes they’ve no intention of buying are scattered around, something to keep the sharp knobs of Kaneki’s spine from smearing sweat into the glass.

“No.” It’s harsh the way it’s breathed out, how butterfly fingers escape from smooth fabric to go beneath the folds of his shirt, purple on the inside, russet everywhere else to a thick, leather band that rests sharply against the sharp dip of Tsukiyama’s throat, a stark contrast of dark against unblemished flesh. Kaneki tugs on it, tilts Tsukiyama’s chin upwards until they’re eye to eye – sharp dark spirals of nothing sharply meeting such a cruel gaze that’s almost as unforgiving as it is punishing. Tsukiyama wants to snarl, wants to show frustration, but he knows better. As if he’s more _Her_ than he’s ever admitted, Kaneki likes it better when he’s squirming, when he’s begging, but submissive and near sobbing with desire.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere. Tsukiyama knows he’s allowed to touch now, the way those fingers against his anchor stagger and stroke as if to soothe the wild look that’s near glazed. So Tsukiyama touches as he’s wanted to for the length of the time they’ve been together this day, since early in the morning, shopping, pretending to smile and eat, Kaneki’s own brand of control the more people stare at them together and pretend to understand. And he does touch with shaking hands pressed against the smoothness of Kaneki’s thigh, the translucent skin where veins peek out and sing with what’s inside of them, higher and higher against the skin and around to the back where he can find that intoxicating hold of the plumpness of a hip. His nails drag with the intention of breaking the skin, and Kaneki is breathless with laughter if only for a moment before his fingers tighten against the collar and slowly push down.

His hands don’t even pretend to shake as he guides Tsukiyama down, down from where he’s been holding Kaneki up against the window and down until his pressed pants are dirtying from the floor. And when Kaneki’s hands move from the ornament around his neck to the strands of his hair and pull taut to the point where pain could be an option if he could genuinely feel such a thing, Tsukiyama does groan. He’s allowed to, to burrow, to press his face against Kaneki’s thigh right above where the stocking rests, maybe squeezing down a little too tight with a little bow neatly sewn there, and he breathes in a scent that’s not just Kaneki’s but _Hers_ as well and shivers. This is it. Since morning, since they met, since wind chimes blew and signaled a disaster, this is what he’s been waiting for. A taste, a bite, the swell of pomegranate against his tongue like wine so sweet Tsukiyama is dizzy just thinking about it.

“Good boy, Tsuki—” Kaneki breathes, sanguine and melting. He’s dreamless shards, landscape of monochromatic colors and spinning angles. Hollow, vibrant. “—yama. You can have it now.” A blessing, a gift, bestowed upon by an unforgiving tongue and a melancholic timbre that sways stable mountains. Tsukiyama is ravenous, bared teeth and clawing fingers leaving streaks and streaks of red against flat skin, a foot pressed crookedly against his stomach that shakes, naked and crooning.

It’s _Her_ there, sharp and raptured,  but it’s Kaneki that breathes out a rasping sigh when teeth sink into blooming skin where red petals grow and flatten within the same instant, a tongue that laps hungrily at the flowing wine that is far too melodic to be real. It’s Kaneki that tilts his chin back and clings too tightly to Tsukiyama’s shoulders, harsh, choked sobs coming from his mouth that are a mixture of pain and pleasure, bordering on unconscious need. It’s Kaneki’s muscles that jerk beneath his teeth and tense as if he’s prepared to flee, but it’s Kaneki’s voice that’s nothing short of being a river of agreement, Kaneki’s clenched gaze that’s wavering with a border of crystalline tears, and Kaneki’s cheeks that are stained permanently with this warm glow of infinite wonder. This is what Tsukiyama gives him, a blend of nothingness.

And he is nothing but melted something, legs parted and trembling as a beast devours.


	2. i'll worship you like a dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Degradation is acceptance.

He ends up, somehow, predictably, on his knees when they’re alone struggling for balance, or solace, or whatever it is that day that he finds himself near pleading for. He’s a replica of a statue with his taut back, only curving when he shivers – and he finds himself shivering often. Moments like this aren’t a rarity, aren’t tucked away for months at a time, yet _degradation_ is a certain aspect of their relationship that he finds remotely interesting if not tormenting. A role reversal, Tsukiyama approves, because he’s just as harsh outside these four walls if not more, taunts and jibes of “weak” and mild-mannered “oh, how _quaint_ ” that sometimes refuses to be held back. He always known when he crosses the line. His punisher is a soft palette of unforgiving curves and a narrow drop of hips that are inviting.

“You’re a dog,” Kaneki says, bitten. “A filthy, ratty, unwanted mutt.” In the heat of the moment, Tsukiyama finds his words to resemble colors. His tone makes them vibrant. A plethora of unusual shades of violet and a deep, bone-grinding red that makes his teeth hurt. Kaneki’s face is blank, eyes muted despite the tightness of them. “Bark for me,” he continues. He is steel. He is _distant_. “Bark for me, like a good dog would, and I’ll give you want.” It’s brutally unfair how whimsical he sounds. He really isn’t fazed at all, like he couldn’t bother to pretend to be aroused. His stance on the edge of his chair is lazy and long, furling, with long thighs beneath the blackness of his clothes.

Tsukiyama pitches a low whine, lowers his face closer to the ground and feels heated from the way Kaneki makes him feel so low. His tongue cures around the gnarled sound, a playful growl followed by a short rap of wind leaving his mouth and through the peer of his lashes, he watches Kaneki’s calves tense and relax. How _shameful_. He tempers himself, finds mirth in the situation; a distraction He imagines the taste of the meat of Kaneki’s legs, something medium rare and dry. It passes the time between the next noise he makes. Tsukiyama acknowledges the truth in the young man’s words. Like a mutt, he begs. Like a dog, he follows loyally despite the trivial things his owner may put him through. He barks when commanded. He attacks when commanded. He feeds when allowed and indulges himself in his monthly heats when acceptance is given and grinds until he finds the action that combines their flesh together. He’s far too aware.

“Speak,” Kaneki is soft, softening around the edges, softening where he covers himself most. His hands are clenched around the wood of the chair, nearly splintering, shivering. His eyes are squeezed tight for someone who dares to pretend he’s not affected by anything. It’s an odd succession. Tsukiyama feels the sight of it inside his thighs like electricity. He would lie and say it isn’t often that he sees such vulnerability, but he sees it when both of them are desperate and hungry.

Tsukiyama growls and crawls, head ducked, nose touching Kaneki’s knee and braces for the punishment that should come. It never does, and instead his _master_ trembles and breathes a timid breath between pale lips, eyes cracked open if only slightly. Like the good dog he is, he licks at Kaneki’s skin comfortingly and tastes the sweat, tastes the desire that pulses through his veins and growls thickly at the innocence.

“Eat me,” is Kaneki’s response, trapped in that brittle throat of his. “Eat me, eat me, eat me.” Tsukiyama tucks his face against the warmest part of Kaneki’s thighs and wraps his greedy _paws_ around the ivory skin that quakes so nicely, and like a _mutt_ , digs in to the only food that will satisfy him.


	3. this is to see the face of god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A necessary separation by a gentle existence.

“Say my name.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Just humor me.”  
  
He speaks lightly, evenly, as though he’s still not troubled. Masked cries of another preference play condescendingly in his head, driving him _mad_ with some sort of jealousy, like avarice isn’t his vice. Kaneki regards him, gaze too sharp, too knowing, like he’s that much aware of his surroundings at all times, offended and jilted. It would be pleasant to have such a pretty boy gazing at him if it weren’t mixed with some sort of _pity_. Tsukiyama straightens the collar of his shirt, focuses on something else so that he doesn’t validate that all knowing attitude.  
  
“Okay,” Kaneki says. “But only if you beat me this time.”  
  
It all comes down to power, to sparring, to a mixture of everything in between. A desire to protect, or is it to infantilize previous comrades, although it’s none of Tsukiyama’s concern. He’s here for one thing, and one thing alone. At the end of the line, there is a feast awaiting him – one of the finest wines and delicate meats that are awarding for the patience he must provide given current circumstances. There is a line to walk, light and fluid, one foot in front of the other, avoidant of bobbles and sticks that might be tempting to trip over perhaps if he was someone else, but he doesn’t. Kaneki is there, fingers curled despite how he holds his hand out to him, and Tsukiyama only remains because of the curve of his cheek that reddens slightly during moments when emotions run high, and the taste of his skin against his tongue when blood is flooding beneath it, delicious.

Kaneki slams into him at full force, and from there on out, it’s nothing but deflective moments and occasional bursts of lyrical nonsense from Tsukiyama’s lips, the usual ploy they both follow. A thrum of tension, stoic and unchanging, unrepentant despite the cataclysm of emotions that breaks away piece by piece, a changing season but only with the same weather pattern day after day is the only way to describe _this_ between them – neither of them breaking nor bending to the will of one another, a swell of fluster upon their lips, bloody and red. Soreness spurs only a more burning need to come out on top, fingers tight around wrists that struggle beneath his grip, as what sort of sword would Tsukiyama be if he could not defame and subdue, decorate in a pattern of bruises, mouth at the shell of an ear, teasing and relentless despite how Kaneki twists against his chest with a small whine of distaste.

“My name,” Tsukiyama says, impatient.

He does not expect Kaneki’s teeth to sink into his arm, or the small curl of his body as he pushes himself forward, and then they dance as ghouls often do. It’s animalistic and embarrassing, nothing but tongues and teeth and eyes now glistening a faint black decorated with fine veins bulging with excitement, two meeting one. Kaneki is not into it, not like he is at night, and he kicks at Tsukuyama’s chest despite how he _pins_ him down on the tile floor with wide hands and sinks his mouth into the impolite curve of Kaneki’s shoulder. Tsukiyama adores the taste of the boy ardently.

“Shuu,” Kaneki gasps out, like a forfeit, or rather humiliation. Although, it’s arousal that carries in his tone, trembling beneath the steel he wishes his voice could be. Tsukiyama finds it somewhat amusing how easy it is to give into the human needs that have plagued him since adolescence, the keen red across his cheeks and down his throat, even his abdomen where his shirt has risen up. “Tsukiyama Shuu.”

Tsukyama thinks of letting him off lightly, he genuinely does, but he can’t help but brush his thumb against the pouting lower lip of his _accomplice_. “You do know how I am,” he says. It’s either anger or furthered laughter in his voice, but even he can’t decide. It’s _delightful_ the way his name drips off the tip of Ken’s tongue, and he shivers just to know.

He leans down intending to kiss him.

He does not expect the interruption.

Hinami isn’t often unkind, petulant only if left alone for far too long than a slight woman should be, and it’s not Tsukiyama’s fault Kaneki has not been around her as often, not at all, not even if it _was_ his name Kaneki had been crying out earlier that morning, muffled by his brisk suit. Yet she enters without knocking, and Kaneki stiffens beneath him becoming the vice of guilt, eyes wide, panicked even, and flickering between coolness and welcoming.

“Oh,” Hinami says faintly.

“Oh,” Kaneki echoes.


	4. two can keep a secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It always comes back to this.

“Ah — _Hide_.”

It truly is offensive, Tsukiyama thinks, that while he gives Kaneki this satisfaction that the younger man’s mind is elsewhere, on someone who doesn’t even _know_. It’s not this _Hide’s_ hands who are holding Kaneki’s trembling, jerking hips while he licks at him. It’s not this _Hide’s_ submission that Kaneki seems to thrive on, whether it’s unconsciously tugging on his leash or having him bark for a bit of their fun. It’s not this _Hide_ who is giving in, allowing himself to settle in human desires such as _fucking_ and _sucking_. It’s Tsukiyama, Kaneki’s most loyal. That thought is punctuated with a soft sob, coy and gentle, hips that push back against Tsukiyama’s mouth insistently – trustingly, and hungers.

Tsukiyama laps at Kaneki’s rim lazily, curiosity spiked, but not dangerously. He’s calculating as he should be, twisted words and polluted morals with a venmous tongue, wondering all the while just what it takes to make Kaneki break, to make Kaneki whine _his_ name like that. It’s a sick consideration for someone whose only endeavor is pleasantly ended when he’s eaten all of that porcelain skin spread bare beneath him. It’s during this moment, some keen mewl that sinks its way deep into Tsukiyama’s core, that he wishes he could _see_ Kaneki’s face. Oh, he imagines that it’s a glorious image of pinched features, lips too raw, eyes too wild, uncontrolled, and a neat flush that brings his blood roaring to life. But that’s not how Kaneki is, instead on his hands and knees, hips in the air and wavering slightly, fingers tight in cotton sheets made to throwaway, made to be coated in their blood as they lay together. Tsukiyama growls.

He is hungry and relentless with those careless images fastened safely in his chest. He _fucks_ into Kaneki with his tongue, humming against the skin that is open and warm, squeezes his hold on the bones of the man’s hips before dropping down to rake carelessly down his thighs, sharply enough for blood to bubble at the surface pleasantly. It’s an intoxicating experience, dizzying and fascinating, so he leans down, coats his finger and licks up _that_ delicious nectar that’s waiting for him even if there _is_ an impatient huff from above. Kaneki is vocal when he’s empty, not the usual cruel man who stands on top of corpses and converses like it’s a normal occasion. This Kaneki is weak, flimsy and human, embarrassing almost in the way he pleases himself with _sexual matters_.

“Finger yourself,” Tsukiyaa says impatiently, more interested on the blood he’s spilled than the current task at hand. It’s not a terrible decision to make. He quite enjoys the view he has, his own concession stand snack as he licks off the blood from his fingers.

“While you eat me?” Kaneki hums, shattered pieces of interest impossible with such a wrecked tone. Yet, Tsukiyama is mildly impressed that Kaneki even remembers where he is, who he’s with, with such a plethora of cries of someone else’s name coming from his mouth. “Are you even going to watch?” His tone states his amused, yet hoarsely reinstates how needy he is for attention, for clarification.

“Of course.” Tsukiyama might be displeased with the whispered chanting of “Hide”, but he is tainted with the seven sins after all, and lust is his patron card, gluttony following aptly. It’s hard not to watch as Kaneki follows a simple commanded, back muscles contracting, thigh muscles squeezing, positively delicious in the sharp curve of his spine as one hand moves, trashes, and dips _in_. The movement is punctuated by a soft sigh, stifled by teeth biting a lip, and Tsukiyama betters this nose by digging his teeth directly into the pale skin of his leg, mouth suctioning around the spill of blood pooling lazily where he dug his fingers in.

But there it is again, the gentle “Hide” that sounds so positively wrecked that Tsukiyama can’t help but feel frustrated – his delicate flower so _fixed_ on mouthing the syllables to someone else’s name when _he’s_ right there, teeth sinking in and giving the pain that Kaneki believes he deserves.

It just makes him tear into Kaneki’s thigh harder until the drawn out “ _Hide!_ ” trickles down into a strangeld cry, mouth pressed against the sheets to hush the breath let someone else hear.

It’s satisfying.


	5. there is no such thing as romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Itadakimasu, or: Let's eat.

Breathless, wordless; a methodical rhythm tinged with regret – as if simple humanity is a construct of perception deemed otherwise prosperous in the eyes of the First and the Last. A deconstruction of classical law stated that two ends should never meet despite how he feeds in semblance with the ouroboros, trickling pomegranate to coat his tongue while the perfume of regret is thick. It’s a recoil of affirmative action where one so haste for aforementioned adventure now trembles uselessly, fingers too tight with knuckles paling paler and muscles restricted while control spirals needlessly out of action, out of play, out of remorse.

How else would one describe such a pleasant _le plat_ of the finest steak momentarily treated in the finest sauce merged with sweat and delicious pleas for something other than this? It’s a crackle of energy, a fine strike of lightning that illuminates the world between his eyelashes and gives him a sense of peace. His ultimatum remains something similar to the original draft of his work, _l'Ange et l'Falconer_ , only now it seems to be accepted as finality rings through every inch of a spine curved without regard to decorum, to control, and to respect of the grand masters of the art.

Tsukiyama regards himself as such.

He’s only the finest connoisseur of even the most elite of meals to be settled down before him, skeptical of that which is held in high standards by those of the few of society that stand over him, and adamant of only having the finest things enter his palate. Never is he above going through obscure methods of finding what he wishes, fingers guided over his own instrument of destruction which has goaded him from the moment he first encountered such a sweet sight. A plump mouth decorated by the most beautiful of laughs, harsh eyes that tighten carelessly the closer they become to finally achieving immortality, and an acceptance for the discrepancy of what two separate lives bring.

Kaneki Ken is hardly anything more than a Seraph tainted by two worlds, a foot in each still although warnings ring clearer and clearer the more he leaves the sun’s reach. He accepts darkness as a simple piece of him, as though he’s dying to give another a chance – and Tsukiyama supposes woefully he knows entirely who that significant _other_ is, and they are no one in this tiny room built for two. Yet notwithstanding these facts that there is a taste of unrequited emotion blossoming here like a rose, Kaneki remains laid bare beneath him, thighs parted, and maybe with the whole of his stomach missing had he not asserted that dominance he’s kept cool composure over since he very first left Anteiku with a frigid notice that even had the frost queen in shambles of confusion.

Gated between smooth thighs and called upon by the gentlest touch of ivory fingers does he lower himself _there_ of all vile places, although to say it were an unexplored region would be a vast lie in itself because Tsukiyama is well-learned of such a secret place. Kaneki is languid beneath him, complying yet resilient with nothing more than a fluid noise of pain-tinged-pleasure. Only the shifting of eyes gives it away, broken in even the lightest light that perhaps this is not just something humans enjoy. Tsukiyama feels wildly underrepresented, vastly exposed because while he’s never been one himself for romantic gazing, Ken _is_. He’s rather taken by the way small hands feel across his collarbones, around his neck, dragging his face closer and closer to the part his cologne is smeared best.

“So,” Ken says, salt lips nothing but a garnish in his _hair_ , “you’re inside.”

“I am,” Tsukiyama acknowledges. He’s thoroughly moved by this kindness, and in response, _moves_ Kaneki in a way he hopes will have him just as touched.

“Are you ––– enjoying yourself?”

A soft growl, thick, a contrast to subtle movements which ought to be softened. Tsukiyama has never been a gentle creature, plastered from head to toe in gore on the occasion and rather fond of the taste of his own muscle, but there’s a call for concern when half of him recommends the appetite of a raging beast and the other is curious to learn why.

“Ah, _bien sûr_ , thank you,” he says plainly and shivers when Kaneki’s tongue ghosts against his throat, “for the meal.”

A flash of red offsets the white of the pillows.


	6. epilogue ; and this is how you mourn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was a shy boy with his nose buried in someone else's business.

“Verdammt.”

It is nothing of the rosary coiled around his neck, the frills of his clothes and the curl of his lip as he gazes onward hardly more than a coiled snake ready to lash out at even the image of that which previously stood in his place. He is withered and curved, bent _glass_ crusted with a russet gleam, a shame brought to even be sitting in the same room as he who he loves. The note of G is the only noise to accompany those who sit in the room, a duet with a broken inclination of existence where one partially holds on to the world around.

Kanae is a fine canary of scarred resolution, knees tucked to his bitter chest while he watches as Shuu serenades that mysterious lover of his yet no one at the same time. To repeatedly tell him no one sits there to his right is to be speak aloud for no reason than to hear his own voice, because Kanae has tried to put an end to this madness before him with no genuine results to come out of it. He knows well of this Kaneki Ken, of some frigid breaking off of a relationship that was probably nothing more than a figment of everyone’s imagination, but that doesn’t mean Kanae must soften his own emotions toward this white haired problem that remains even after these months have passed.

It’s luck on its own that Shuu is seemingly well enough to even sit up. Starvation creaks around this house disgustingly like a storm cloud to crackle around when someone even suggests food. It’s a damn _ghoul_ in the fictional sense of life, and it won’t stop its belligerent moaning for one moment. Kanae doesn’t blame Shuu, not at all, not even remotely, because _Shuu_ would never willingly desert that of which he loved dearly as can clearly be seen by this horrendous caterwauling of filthy human representation. What a loving note of G, nothing but G, to sound so eerily haunted while also missing the rest of what belongs. Kanae clutches his violin violently between his fingers and tries to not shiver as if he’s a ghost.

Somewhere in this world, that abhorrent _Mischling_ is wandering without a single fuck to give about those he abandoned miserably in his own quest for power. Somewhere in this world, Kaneki Ken is laughing at some horrible joke he’s come up with on his own in a moment of feeling light and familiar. Kaneki Ken is feeling a tragic surge of dissonance and weeps at the realization he is perhaps leaving something behind that he longs for – and it _isn’t_ Shuu that he requests. Kaneki Ken is learning how to let go even if his scent is a mixture of Hide’s brightness from being devoured and a sightless look of nothing but two matching holes where his eyes ought to be. Of course he wouldn’t come when pain clearly resounds from this den, because he doesn’t _care_ and hasn’t.

“ _Für dich_ will I find him,” Kanae whispers miserably as Shuu gasps at something audacious Imaginary Kaneki must have said from beside him. “From the bottom of my heart, _für dich_ will I see to it that you smile.”

Jealousy works in mysterious ways, and Kanae itches for destruction.


End file.
